19

Missing Dogs

It was mid-afternoon by the time they got to Queensleap. It had been a lovely drive, although it began to cloud up as the day wore on. The sun was still out, mostly, but Helen had been distracted by her thoughts and her incessant perusal of the road map. She hardly noticed the spectacular foliage. She was darned if she could find any road to McVey’s place. But in their rambling around the backcountry outside of Queensleap, they suddenly came upon the Luck mailbox.

“Stop,” Helen said. “Let’s go down there.”

“This ain’t really the car for it,” Roman said, eyeing the bushes crowding the road, thinking of the scratches. “What if I can’t turn around?”

Helen waved that objection off. Sure enough, they came to a locked gate and no place to turn. Roman groaned. But Helen got out. Within twenty seconds, however, a rough-looking fellow wearing a vaguely military uniform appeared. He wore a holstered side-arm on his hip and carried a cell phone. He stood on the other side of the gate and asked Helen what she wanted.

“Are you Mr. Luck?” she inquired.

“No,” the man said. “He ain’t around.”

Helen didn’t think he was being uncivil, merely a bit bumpkinish. She wondered momentarily if M. P. Luck was some kind of reclusive tycoon; who employed armed guards out in these sticks? She had more pressing interests, though, and inquired if he knew where McVey’s place was.

“McVey? McVey don’t live around here,” the man said.

“Well, is there a place in there where we could turn around?” Helen asked. “This car is so big. It’s too far to back up.”

The man looked at the vehicle, recognizing the problem. “Lemme see,” he said. He snapped the cell phone open. Apparently, it had a walkie-talkie function, because he immediately began talking, explaining the problem. After a brief discussion with whoever was on the other end, he said to Helen, “Gotta wait.”

He just stared at Helen, and at Roman behind the wheel, silently, until the phone buzzed. He lifted it to his ear. “Yeah,” he said into it. “There’s a guy, too, a driver.” To Helen he said abruptly, “What’s your name?” When Helen told him, and he’d relayed that information, he said, “Who’s he?” nodding toward Roman.

“He works for me,” Helen said. “He’s the driver. Hey, what’s the big deal? I just want to turn—”

The guard held the phone to his ear and waved her to be quiet. Then he said, “All right, he says you can come down.”

“Okay!” Helen scrambled back into the car while the man unlocked the gate.

He stopped them as the vehicle pulled forward. “Just go on down there to the house. It’s a little ways, but keep going. You can turn around there. Don’t get out, don’t stop. And come right back.”

When they got to the clearing around the house, a tall, handsome man was standing there, smiling. He wore an elegant plaid wool shirt under a sheepskin vest. His hair was full and dark, with gray at the temples. He came to Helen’s side of the car when they pulled up and stuck out his hand when she lowered the window.

“Hi, I’m Imp Luck,” he said. “You must be Miss Sedlacek.”

While Helen shook his hand, Luck stooped and looked through to Roman. He nodded to him.

He stepped back from the car. “Sorry about the gate,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for the McVey place,” Helen said.

“Well, you know . . .”—Luck rubbed his chin and looked around thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out how to describe where this might be—“McVey . . . if you’re looking for Charlie McVey, he lives back toward town, on the Summit City road. Is that—?”

“No, no,” Helen said, opening the door and getting out. She looked up at Luck. He was a big man and he projected an attractive aura, familiar to her, like certain football players she had known—very masculine, protective. Her father, Big Sid, had been like that. Helen responded to that. She couldn’t resist looking him up and down, flirting a bit.

“Maybe it’s some other McVey,” Helen said, her hands on her hips, squinting up at him, smiling. She had set her legs apart, in her short skirt, and twisted back and forth slightly, as if stretching. “Ohhh, I’m stiff,” she said.

Luck stepped back slightly to get the full view. He seemed flattered by her vivacity, as well as appreciating her lithe legs. He grinned broadly. “Why don’t you come in and we could look in the phone book? I could offer you a drink.”

“Oh. That would be great.”

“What about your friend?” Luck said, gesturing toward Roman.

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Helen said, stepping toward the house. She couldn’t resist taking Luck’s arm.

“I could send out a beer for him,” Luck said. He helped her up the short step onto the porch.

Helen assured him it wasn’t necessary. Inside, standing in the kitchen, she said, “What a terrific place!” She glanced about. “It’s so neat. So . . . masculine.”

“Thanks,” Luck said, pleased. “Well, it’s a little early for a drink, actually, but what the heck! Eh? Join me in a taste of scotch? Or can I get you something milder? There’s a pinot gris chilling.”

“The pinot sounds great,” Helen said, “but so does the scotch, frankly. We’ve been driving all morning and I’m frustrated at not finding this McVey.”

“By all means, scotch. I have an excellent, smooth single malt. It comes from a distiller in the hills up by Strathmore.” He disappeared into a pantry and returned immediately, holding a dusty bottle. “Look at this label,” Luck said smiling.

The two of them stood close to each other, peering at the brown paper label, handwritten in faded black ink and pasted on the dark green bottle slightly askew. It attested to the fifteen years of aging and was signed by Robbie Robertson. The label had been printed with what one might presume was Mr. Robertson’s coat of arms, but it wasn’t quite clear what it was—a shield with a stag, a beaver, and an acorn, perhaps. In a fine but not too legible flowing script, it was declared to be “Robertson’s Choice.”

“Robbie makes only a few barrels at a time,” Luck said. “You can’t buy this stuff, except from him personally.”

Helen laughed delightedly and dared to squeeze Luck’s arm. “I’ll have that!”

When they were seated in the living room, Luck inquired, “Who is this McVey you’re looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” Helen said. She sipped the scotch. “This is so smooth. It’s like . . . I don’t know what, some kind of golden elixir. It goes down so smoothly, and yet it has that glow. I can feel it all the way down.”

“Yes, you feel you can taste the peat smoke. You can’t, of course, but . . .”

“Oh, you can! I can, anyway. Well, some kind of smoky taste.”

Luck smiled at her, pleased with her. “Hey,” he said, “I forgot the phone book.” He jumped up. When he returned holding it, he said, stooping to look out the windows toward the yard, “Your friend seems a little anxious.”

Helen bounded up and looked. Roman had gotten out of the car and was pacing a few steps this way and then that, looking at the house but undecided whether to approach, rather like a puzzled bear. Helen went to the door and opened it, calling out to him: “I’ll be right there, Roman! Just wait in the car.”

She returned to her seat. “He worries about me,” she said. “Well?” She looked to Luck, who was seated, paging through the slender rural telephone book.

“Don’t you have a first name for this McVey?” he asked, looking up. “The only ones I see are Charlie and Verna, his wife.”

“Well, actually, I’m looking for a piece of property,” Helen said. “It’s supposed to be on the river, not too far from here. But I didn’t see any road down that way.”

“You know what I think?” Luck closed the phone book and set it aside. “I’ll bet it’s that old hunting cabin of Tom Adams’s. My father left it to Tom, along with some land—gratitude for long service. Then, of all things, when Tom died he left it to Charlie.” Luck’s expression darkened momentarily, as if recollecting an annoying circumstance. He smiled and added, “It’s not occupied. McVey never uses it, but he rents it out in deer season to hunters from down below. There won’t be anyone over there. Deer season isn’t for a couple, three weeks anyway.”

“That must be it. But how do you get to it?” Helen asked.

“I could draw you a map,” Luck said. “Or heck, I could take you over there. It’s just beyond my property. There’s an old logging road, but I don’t think your car . . . Were you supposed to meet someone?”

Helen could almost swear he winked, or came close to it. Abruptly, her warm feelings toward Luck faded. He seemed to be implying some faintly disreputable behavior on her part, perhaps a lovers’ tryst or something equally absurd.

“A friend of mine is staying there, taking a little vacation, I guess,” she said. “I have a message for him.” Spoken like that, she realized that it sounded lame. She compounded the false impression by compulsively adding, “It’s from his mother.”

“His mother?” Luck nodded, knowingly, his brows arched.

Helen hated him for that look. “It’s about his mother. She’s ill or, rather, she was ill.”

“Ah. And now . . . she’s better?” Luck sipped his scotch, almost audibly relishing the taste.

“Yes, she’s better,” Helen said, with an edge in her voice. Almost against her will, she babbled on: “She’d been having trouble with her memory, you know, a ‘senior moment.’” That sounded spiteful, she knew, but she rushed on: “She’s remembered something . . . something important. She wanted me to tell her son.”

“It must have been very important for you to drive so far. All morning, you said. From Detroit?” Luck tried to ease her apparent embarrassment by sounding detached.

“Yes, Detroit.” Helen wanted to get up and leave, but somehow she couldn’t. She was transfixed by Luck’s intense gaze. She tugged at the hem of her skirt, but it wouldn’t cover her knees.

“What’s your rusticating friend’s name?” he asked.

Helen wondered if he was patronizing her. “Muh—” she started to say, then finished with “—ullin.”

“Mullin? I don’t know him, I’m afraid.” Luck shook his head. “I haven’t seen anyone about, no strangers. Has he been up here long? Fishing, is he?”

“I guess so,” Helen said. “He’s been up here for a few days, I think.”

“The Manistee is famous fishing,” Luck said. “Mr. Mullin must be a fly fisherman. Guys come from all over—New York, Pennsylvania—to fish the Manistee. But usually it’s more over toward Kalkaska, for those big summer hatches—the ephemera, gray drakes.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Helen said. “Well, I guess we better get going,” she said. She managed to get to her feet. “Thanks for the drink. I’m sure Roman is getting antsy.”

“Hey, I’ll tell you what,” Luck said, rising. He was his old, warm self. “We could just walk back there. It isn’t that far . . . a pleasant walk. Your friend, Roman, could wait here.” He reached for her glass. “Sure you won’t have another?”

Helen let him take the glass. She flinched when their fingers touched. “No, no, it’s too much to ask,” Helen said. “We’ll drive around, if you’ll just point out the way.”

Luck followed her into the kitchen and set the glasses on the counter. “You know, I’m intrigued by this memory loss, this ‘senior moment,’” he said. “What is it, Alzheimer’s or something? You know, I’m getting to that point . . .” He laughed, a bit wildly.

Helen stared at him. “No, nothing like that. She’d had an accident.”

“Ah, yes. You said. I forgot. A ‘senior moment’ of my own. And you know what? I had another one. Maybe I’m the one with Alzheimer’s.” He offered another laugh, in which Helen did not join. “There is, or used to be, a phone in that old cabin. But I’ll bet it’s under Tom Adams’s name still. Want me to get it? You could call your friend Mullin.”

There was something about the way he said “Mullin” that seemed almost derisive, as if he didn’t believe there was a man named Mullin.

Somehow, Luck had gotten between Helen and the door. He gestured at a telephone on the counter.

Helen looked wary. “No, I think I’d rather surprise him,” she said.

“Ah. He doesn’t know you’re coming?” Luck said. He leaned back against the door. “That’ll be a nice surprise. It’s not often a pretty girl comes knocking at the cabin in the woods. Sort of like Little Red Riding Hood.”

He was making some kind of joke, Helen realized, but she wondered suddenly if he wasn’t a little crazy, just babbling, as she had been a moment earlier. He didn’t look crazy, but . . . the association of the fairy tale and the woods, the two of them alone . . . For a confused moment his smile seemed fixed, even wolfish.

She laughed cheerfully. “Yes, that’s . . . kind of primal, isn’t it? Well,” she said, in a more practical tone, “do I just go on down this road, the one we turned off at your mailbox?”

Luck’s smile shifted to wry. He folded his arms and looked thoughtful, as if pondering how to explain the terribly complicated route through the forest to Grandmother’s house. He said, “Well, you could go that way, but it’s so far around. You have to go clear back out to the highway, then south toward Cadillac. The road to the cabin is not marked, no sign or anything. You’d miss it, sure as shootin’. And heck, through the woods it’s . . . oh, not more than a fifteen-minute walk.”

“Oh, I’m really not dressed for it,” Helen said, glancing down at her skirt, her white sneakers. “And besides, there’d I be and Roman would still be here, with the car. No, we’d better drive and take our chances on finding that road. After you turn on the highway, how far would it be to the road?”

“Well, suit yourself,” Luck said. “You go about, oh, a mile on the highway, something like that. It won’t be the first road—there’s a bunch of more or less unused roads in these woods. Only the hunters use them. You might have to try one or two. But you’ll have the same problem with that Cadillac. No room to turn around, places where the car might get high-centered. You could lose a muffler, if you don’t go slow! Hey! Why am I fooling around? By now I could have driven over there and shown you the way! How would that be?”

“Oh, I couldn’t put you out,” Helen said. “I’m sure we’ll find it.”

“Nonsense! Just give me a sec. I’ll have to let the guys know I’m going out. Well, heck, I can call them on the radio. Come on!” He grabbed a field jacket off a peg next to the door and clapped a Filson hat on his head at a rakish angle.

He opened the door and gallantly waved her outside. Luck leaned on the driver’s door of the Cadillac with both hands and explained to Roman that he’d lead them over to the cabin.

“Go ahead and turn around, I’ll be right with you,” Luck said. “Hey, you could ride with me, if you want,” he called across the front seat to Helen. But it seemed that she preferred to ride with Roman. He shrugged and jogged quickly to a large black pickup, pulled it out, and led them out of the yard.

Helen could see him talking on one of the walkie-talkie phones as he drove slowly through the woods toward the gate. “Roman, that guy is really creepy,” she said.

Roman looked at her with narrowed eyes. “He didn’t try no thin’? You shoulda said somethin’.”

“No, he didn’t try anything,” Helen reassured him. “He was just . . . creepy. At first he seemed really friendly, then I think he figured out I was looking for Mulheisen.”

“How’d he figure that?” Roman said.

“I almost gave it away,” she admitted. She related the conversation.

“He’s sure takin’ his time,” Roman said, “jabberin’ away a mile a minute. But so what if he knows you’re lookin’ for Mulheisen? I don’t get it.”

Helen didn’t get it either. What was Mulheisen to Luck? They came to the gate and waited while he unlocked it, drove through, then waited again while he locked it.

“This guy is into security,” Roman said.

Luck stopped as he passed by them to say, “Just follow me. It’s not that far, but you’ll miss the road if you don’t tag along.”

They nodded and followed him out. Ten minutes later they were on the highway. Again they drove along quite slowly, causing a few cars to pull out and pass them, although this was hardly a high traffic area, through a rather extensively forested countryside. The trees came right to the edge of the road, making it almost dark already, although it wasn’t that late in the afternoon. But the clouds had moved in again after a pleasant morning and early afternoon of mostly sun. The trees were brilliant in their fall foliage, despite the rain of the previous night, and despite having lost many leaves in the wind. It was clear that fall was coming to its end with a quickened pace.

After about two miles, they crested a long hill and there was a large iron bridge below, painted silver. Luck slowed the pickup and turned at a road just before the bridge.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Helen groused, “he could have told us it was the road just before the bridge.”

Indeed, it was the river road, obviously, although it soon moved away from the stream to take a easier route around some knobs and gullies. They lost sight of the river through the trees. And very soon they lost sight of Luck, who had sped on. Roman did not dare to match his speed, the big old Cadillac already bounding alarmingly on the undulating rough road, with its declivities and rises. It went on for at least a mile. Soon enough, they pulled up short of the rustic cabin, perched on a rise looking out over the river and the forest beyond. Luck was standing next to his truck.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” he said, when they drove up and parked.

He looked around at the forest behind them.

“Did you knock?” Helen said, getting out.

“No,” Luck said. “Try it. Looks like someone has been here, but whoever it was is gone now. Sorry.”

Helen went up to the door and pounded, looking in through the large windows from the spacious deck. There was no response and in general there was that utter absence of sound and life that tells one that no one is at home. She strolled out on the deck and stood there, hands on hips, gazing out over the broad expanse of forest that reached off to the west.

“I’ll be darned,” she said, returning to the vehicles.

Luck looked at her amiably. “Now what? Maybe he’s gone back to Detroit.”

Helen was stymied. “Maybe,” she said, “but he might have just gone into town, for groceries or something.”

Roman got out and stretched. “Jeez, I’m hungry,” he said.

“Well, why don’t you folks come on back to the house?” Luck said. “I’ll fix you some dinner. Hate to think of you sitting out here waiting, not knowing if Mullin is returning.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Helen said firmly. “We’ll go on into town and get a motel. How far is it to Traverse City?”

“Cadillac’s closer,” Luck said. “About eighteen, twenty miles. It’s kind of a toss-up, but Cadillac’s easier to get to.”

“Well, I guess we’ll go to Cadillac then,” she said. She thanked Luck for all his help.

He assured her it was no problem. He waited for them to drive off, then turned around and followed. He soon fell back and they lost sight of him.

Helen looked back. “He was in a hurry to get here,” she said, “now he’s dawdling.”

Roman drove on. When they got to the highway he turned south, toward Cadillac, but once they were beyond the bridge and out of sight of the river Helen told him to pull over.

“What’s up?” he said, easing the Cadillac onto the narrow shoulder. There was a little house a ways ahead.

“Let’s just wait a bit,” Helen said. “Mulheisen had been there. I saw his cigars—my cigars—the butts anyway, in the ashtray. La Donnas. He’ll be coming back. A guy doesn’t leave them for someone to clean up. I’ll tell you something else: Joe was there.”

“He was?” Roman was surprised. “You mean, just now?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

“There wasn’t no car,” Roman pointed out.

“No, there wasn’t,” Helen conceded. “Maybe he went somewhere with Mulheisen. Although . . . that doesn’t seem too likely. Does it?”

“I don’t t’ink so,” Roman said, shaking his head slowly.

They sat silently for a while, then Roman said, “You wanna go back?”

“In a minute,” she said.

“I’m starvin’,” Roman said. “You? We ain’t had nothin’ since breakfast.”

“All right,” Helen said. She nodded forward.

They drove to a small town up the road a few miles and ate a country-style meal of chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy at a family restaurant. Roman ate with great gusto, but Helen wasn’t so keen on the cuisine. It was way too starchy, she said. Roman shrugged and ordered the cherry pie with ice cream. “Good pie,” he said as they left. “I remember that pie. I come up here with your dad once.”

Helen was astonished. “Up here?”

“Somewheres around here,” Roman said.

“I can’t imagine Pop up here, in the woods. What were you doing here?”

“Nothin’,” Roman said. “I can’t remember. Your old man hated it. We hung out for a few days and went back. Almost drove him nuts.”

There was a log cabin bar on the highway a few miles from Luck’s place. It was currently named the Dog House, but Joe thought it could just as easily be called the Road House. A spacious barroom, a low ceiling, suitably gloomy, with a tiny bandstand toward the rear and space for patrons to dance. No one was dancing there now, of course—it was only a little after midday. They had large jars of pickled eggs on the bar, pickled pigs’ feet, too. Joe had a couple of each. They were a bit alarming to look at but tasty. He ordered a draft beer and sat chatting with the busty blond woman who was tending bar. They were the only people in the bar. She said her name was Jerri. She had a sad look but a lovely smile. She asked Joe if he was from around here.

“I’m not,” Joe said, “but I’m looking at property. I’d like a little cabin in the woods.”

Jerri thought that was a good idea. Was he a fisherman? A hunter?

Neither, Joe told her, he just liked the idea of a cabin in the woods. But why, he wondered aloud, was a pretty woman like herself so sad? Was it because it was a nice day and she had to work?

Jerri’s smile got even brighter. She seemed to be about thirty-five, a little older than Joe. “It doesn’t look like that nice a day,” she said. She glanced in the mirror behind her. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I didn’t sleep right or something.” She frowned, recollecting something, but added, “It’s just my nature, I guess.”

She wore a wedding ring and Joe wondered if it had something to do with her apparent sadness. She was married to the owner, it turned out. She freely admitted that he could be the source of her sadness. He was very jealous, but then he didn’t pay her much attention either. She, too, she told him, was attracted to the idea of cabins in the woods. She liked flowers, and birds too.

Joe suggested that if he could find some property and build a cabin she could visit him sometime. Jerri seemed to like that notion. Joe had another beer and mused aloud on what he would do in the woods. Bird-watch, perhaps, he suggested. He’d recently met an elderly lady who had made it seem interesting. He’d never thought about them much, but now he wanted to know more about birds.

“And the bees?” Jerri suggested, arching a brow.

Joe smiled and said that was also a good idea. This seemed a promising gambit, one that Joe was happy to pursue. But now a string of customers came in, some from off the highway, others local farmers who also flirted with Jerri and she with them. Joe sat quietly, thinking about Luck.

Luck had been the second person in twenty-four hours to suggest that Echeverria could be lured to the States so that Joe could settle their accounts. It occurred to Joe that, after all, he had no beef with Echeverria; it was all one-way. Or was it? Maybe it was another of the Colonel’s fictions, facilitated by Luck. Joe thought it would be smart to discuss it with Echeverria himself; maybe they could settle this peacefully. All Joe wanted was to be left alone. He had more of a beef with Luck, if it came to that. He was the one spreading malicious rumors about Joe and telling people where he lived—not that Joe lived there anymore. Or did he?

The sexual interplay with Jerri had aroused him, but mostly it reminded him of Helen. He had to admit, he missed her. Right now. Not just sexually, although that was always present in his thoughts of her, but also in terms of comradeship, for want of a better word. He appreciated her help. She expanded his reach, he felt. Without her, he realized, he was less versatile.

Joe thought it would be a good idea to contact Echeverria. But how? Well, Luck could do that for him. He’d said as much. As soon as he thought it, though, he knew it was bullshit. Any contact would go through the Colonel, and who knew what the Colonel’s agenda was? Luck couldn’t contact Echeverria.

Luck, Joe realized clearly, was an inveterate loser. He was a plausible-looking guy, impressive for a while, but the longer you were around him the more you realized that he was a loser. Losers are dangerous people, Joe thought, especially when they’re oblivious to their inferiority. So . . . what to do about Luck?

The momentary rush of custom had just as suddenly abated. There was again no one in the bar, Joe realized. Jerri drifted back to him, looking lonely. Joe liked her, although he couldn’t help thinking that she, too, was a loser. Joe asked her if she knew Luck.

“Imp?” Jerri’s face clouded. “Yeah, I know him. He comes in here just about every day, or used to. He doesn’t come in much lately. Why you interested in him? He doesn’t have any property to sell.”

“He doesn’t? I thought he was a big property owner around here. Doesn’t he own some river property?”

“He might have, at one time,” Jerri said, “or his grampa did. Seems like Imp has pretty much pissed all that away.” Her tone said clearly that she was not fond of Imp Luck.

Joe said, “Well, he’s got a cabin in the woods, hasn’t he? Have you ever been there?” That was pointed enough, Joe felt. And Jerri rose to the bait.

“I’ll never go again, that’s for sure.”

So she’d had an affair with Luck, and it had not turned out well. Oddly, knowing it made Joe think less of both of them. Her wistful loneliness suddenly seemed pathetic. He knew it was unfair. Minutes earlier, he’d been contemplating making a play for her himself, but now he knew he couldn’t do it. Joe felt sorry. As for Luck, it seemed that he was the sort of man who . . . well, like Joe, putatively . . . fooled around with roadhouse barmaids.

“I heard he was a big man around here,” Joe said.

Jerri looked contemptuous. “Imp always thinks he’s a big man,” she said. “That’s his problem. He thought he was somebody, but it was his grampa. He steps all over people, but what is he? A big man in the barnyard. He has all them fool Huleys following him around, wearing camo, waving the flag, marching in the woods, toting guns, and scaring folks.”

“Huleys?”

“The Huleys are from over near Beckley. No-account hicks. Well, there’s always a few ornery pups in a litter. There’s good Huleys and bad Huleys, like anybody else. Most of them are all right, but there’s a few could do with a little more time in the pen, not that they haven’t already spent more than they should have.”

Joe asked about the sins of the bad Huleys and was treated to a long list: robberies, petty crime, bullying, ignorant shiftlessness, multiple bastardies . . . she could go on, but what was the point? Luck had always gotten along with them, though. Indeed, he’d urged them on, kept them going with small loans, jobs. Luck was a facilitator of backwoods skullduggery. According to Jerri, he did it because it flattered his ego to have a bunch of worthless followers. Although, lately, she conceded, he seemed to be attracting a more middle-class kind of supporter: outsiders, in her opinion, folks from down below, newcomers who didn’t know who they were dealing with.

Joe could see it. Luck was one of those guys who gave a meaning to the concept of “rabble-rouser.” Although Joe had never thought in these terms before, Luck was a man who ought to be shot. He couldn’t recall anyone about whom he’d had such feelings. Most of those he’d shot had been bad enough, but Joe’s reasons for shooting them had never been based on the men’s character, but rather the necessity of shooting them before they shot him.

This man was so self-involved, so oblivious of everyone else, that he was simply too dangerous. Even petty concerns were likely, Joe felt, to be the premise for disastrous actions.

The notion actually gave him a bit of a shock. Was he himself guilty of Luck’s kind of thinking? Was he being petty, self-obsessed, in even thinking casually that Luck should be erased because he was causing some minor discomfort to him? Joe didn’t think so. Luck was bad news. Also, he was too tall. And Joe wasn’t in a good mood.

“What about this guy Hook?” Joe asked. “I talked to him on the phone. He didn’t sound like a Huley-type.”

“Hook? I never heard of any Hook,” Jerri said. “He must be a new one, from down below.”

Joe smiled at Jerri as she drew another beer. She caught his glance and smiled at him, the same sweet, lost smile. Joe almost winced. She was still thinking about the birds and the bees, he saw. He took a sip of the beer and pushed it away. “I’ve got to run,” he said. “See you later,” and he left. He didn’t look back for her reaction.

He drove along the highway, thinking at first that he’d go back to Luck’s. He’d ask him to contact Echeverria, set up a meet. Luck, he was sure, would agree. But it would go through Tucker, and who knew what would ensue.

Just at that moment he came to a lonely-looking dirt road that led back into the forest. He followed it for a mile or so, bumping along slowly. It hadn’t been used much lately. That was good. And he’d passed no dwellings. He pulled off into a little clearing and immediately set to work, inventorying his arms. He’d already done this, of course. He knew exactly what he had. But it was well to make certain.

He had an AK-47, a Remington .12-gauge, a Stoner rifle, a Heckler & Koch MP5A3, a Llama 9mm automatic, a Smith and Wesson Model 59 9mm auto (he liked the fourteen-round magazine). There were others, but that ought to be enough for something. He checked over each piece carefully. The Remington shotgun was a Model 870 that he had cut down to a fourteen-inch barrel and added an A&W converter for a flattened horizontal shot pattern. He decided on #4 buckshot for this gun, preferring the .27-caliber pellets; at least a third of each shell’s thirty-four pellets were likely to strike a target fifty yards distant. It also had a recoil pad, an extended magazine for eight shells, and rifle-type sights.

A neighbor of his out in Montana used to remark, wryly, “The people you bump into when you ain’t armed.” It had been amusing. He wasn’t sure why it had occurred to him. The context was different.

Now all he had to do, he thought, was wait for dark and go back for a more serious conversation with Mr. Luck. He’d had that old familiar feeling, after he’d left Luck, that somehow he had not covered the points he’d meant to. Maybe a revisit would be more productive. But he knew that a revisit would be unlikely to be appreciated. Luck wouldn’t be so happy to see him and would likely react differently.

He decided to take a little nap, here in the woods with the wind rattling the leaves. The beer had made him sleepy. Or maybe it was the pickled pigs’ feet. He spread his ground tarp and sleeping bag out on the leaves and lay back, staring up into the trees. They swayed in the wind with a fine rushing noise; the leaves came spinning down, the clouds rolled over . . . it was a hypnotic feeling. He could hear a distant woodpecker, hammering away. He wondered what kind of woodpecker it was. That in itself added to the odd, displaced feeling he had: he couldn’t recall ever wondering what kind of bird this one was, or that one. He supposed it had something to do with his conversation with the barmaid. Then he knew it was the effect of meeting Mrs. Mulheisen. She knew all the birds. He was sure she would have been able to tell him the name—the species? is that what they say?—of this woodpecker, hacking away so industriously, mindlessly, in this lonely, drafty woods.

He was dozing off, thinking about the little bird woman . . . she was like a bird herself, a sparrow . . . when he recalled something that Cora Mulheisen had let drop. He couldn’t quite recall it, something about remembering. Then it struck him. She had remembered a man who had been at the bombing, a very strange man. She hadn’t been able to recall much about him, it seemed, except that he was agitated. And he was tall.

Suddenly, Joe sat up. It had been Luck. He knew it. It was like Luck to have been there. And if he’d been there, he was involved in the bombing. Joe also recalled the Colonel’s remark about Mulheisen and his mother’s memory problems. Did the Colonel know that Luck had been there?

Joe then thought that if Mulheisen heard this he’d say Joe was jumping to conclusions. Mulheisen would withhold judgment, he’d weigh everything he’d heard, he’d dig deeper, he’d refuse to pin it on Luck until he had more conclusive evidence. But Joe knew. That was the difference between him and Mulheisen. Mulheisen pondered; Joe knew. Call it intuition, whatever, he knew.

The question was, did Luck know that Mrs. Mulheisen knew? Well, how could he? She hadn’t known it herself until the day Joe had met her. And he had stupidly ignored it. Well, it didn’t concern him. He hadn’t known much if anything about Luck. Now he did. Which led to the next question: what to do about Luck? The answer seemed to lie in the same direction as he’d earlier surmised.

*   *   *

Roman and Helen drove back to the cabin. When they were perhaps a quarter mile from it, Helen told Roman to find a place to pull off. That wasn’t so simple, but ultimately he managed to get the hulking Cadillac off to one side. The ground was rough, but they were shielded from the road by the brush.

Helen jumped in the spacious backseat. “We could sleep back here, if we have to,” she remarked. She rummaged in her bags and got out some jeans and a sweater for herself. It had turned cool now that night was coming on. She had thrown in some clever-looking rubberized low-cut boots when she had packed that morning. They were bright blue. She couldn’t remember where she’d gotten them, but they were perfect for what she had in mind.

From another bag she took the Remington shotgun that Joe had modified for her. He’d shortened the barrel a couple of inches. She loaded it with shells while Roman looked on. He had brought his overcoat, naturally. He wore his usual businessman’s hat, with the brim turned up all the way around. He looked like a cartoon bear.

“Are you armed?” Helen said.

Roman patted his breast.

“Okay, let’s walk,” she said. They went forward along the edge of the road, cautiously. At length they came to a spot where they could just make out the dark roof of the cabin jutting up against the barely lighter sky. There were no lights. No one had returned. They could see no sign of Luck’s vehicle, so evidently he hadn’t lingered either.

Helen was tempted to go on to the cabin, but something held her back. She couldn’t have said what it was. The silence, perhaps. It was now quite dark. They had to walk on the road, which had a light, sandy base, in order to find their way. The clouds had moved in and the wind had picked up. The hardwood trees rattled their leaves, and the pines—which seemed to predominate along here—swayed and soughed gently. The inevitable owl hooted distantly. Off to their left they could hear the vague sound of the river, or so they imagined. It was there, they knew, but it wasn’t making a truly identifiable noise, except that infrequently something splashed, presumably a leaping trout.

Roman clearly had no taste for this. The woods spooked him, it seemed. He urged her quietly, “Le’s go back to the car. If Joe’s around, we’ll see him comin’.”

“You go back,” Helen suggested. Roman stayed. But in fact Helen didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to go forward, or go back, and that left her just standing on the edge of the woods. It seemed dumb. It was too damp to sit. So what did one do? Just stand next to a tree all night? And to what end?

Then Roman murmured, “There’s somebuddy.” He pointed down toward the cabin.

Helen strained her eyes. She saw nothing. But eventually a dark form detached itself from the bulk of the cabin, then merged into the general darkness again. Someone was on the deck, or had been. Helen instinctively stepped back into the edge of the woods. Roman joined her. Unfortunately, she realized, there were so many leaves down that one couldn’t walk here without creating what seemed to her like a tidal wave of rustling. She considered that the sound of the wind was high enough and the cabin distant enough that whoever was out there could not hear them . . . if they kept quiet.

And then, from behind them, well back in the woods—how far neither could estimate—there came a persistent machine noise. Not a vehicle. It came no nearer. It was an engine of some sort, though well muffled. Also a clicking, grinding sound. It came from the direction of Luck’s place. Neither of them had any idea how far or near that could be. This noise seemed hundreds of yards away, perhaps a thousand. It was muffled by the intervening trees, obviously. It may have been a quarter mile, for all they knew, or more. And then it stopped.

Now they could hear an occasional voice, although they could make out no words. Helen peered into the woods, ignoring the man at the cabin for now. She was strongly tempted to go in there, see what was going on. It sounded like more than a couple of people, talking or calling to one another.

There followed a long silence, during which both Helen and Roman turned their attention back to the cabin. Whatever was happening in the woods was over. Shortly, they were startled to realize that someone was walking through the woods not far from them. They guessed it was the man they’d spotted earlier. He passed quite near. They could hear his breathing. And then he spoke, evidently into a walkie-talkie phone.

“I’m comin’,” he said. “No. Not a sign.” He swished on.

Obviously, with the noise he was making, they could follow unheard. Helen murmured to Roman, “You stay. Wait for Joe. I’ll be back.” She set off after the man.

Roman was set to go after her, but the woods deterred him. He was from the old country. There, the woods were not a place a sensible man went at night. He had childhood memories of tales of witches, ogres, wolves, and bears. They were just tales but not so easily effaced from the psychic memory. Besides, he told himself, someone had to stay in case Joe returned.

The man in the woods was walking a path that he knew, Helen discerned. She stayed back. He soon must have determined that it was safe to make a light, because now she could see a powerful beam racing ahead of the man, flicking back and forth, sometimes directed at the ground, as if he were picking his way. In the beam she noticed that there were small reflectors mounted on the larger trees, rather high up, above eye height, say ten feet. They marked a definite route. One would scarcely notice them during the day, unless one were a bird-watcher, perhaps. Even so, they were tiny red lights. At night, a stranger in the forest might take them for the eyes of arboreal beasts. Perhaps even owls.

Eventually the man came to a road, and Helen shortly thereafter. Now both could make quicker passage. She stopped when she was perhaps a half mile from the river. The man she was following had not stopped. She could easily see him striding on toward a remarkable, well-lighted area. Huge floodlights bathed a large clearing. What she saw astonished her.

She appeared to be looking directly into a large hill that had opened up. Inside, or rather just outside the hill, a black helicopter sat on a ramp that had projected out from the interior. Several men were walking about, talking. The man she’d followed approached and engaged a couple of the others in conversation.

Luck strode out from the interior, dressed in a dark jumpsuit. He carried a pilot’s helmet. He spoke to the men. The one who had returned trotted off while Luck climbed into the helicopter. The man returned quickly, carrying an odd-shaped weapon, some kind of rifle with an assortment of attachments. The man was also wearing a helmet now, and he lugged a satchel bulging with what Helen supposed was equipment. He tossed that into the chopper and climbed in beside Luck.

A few minutes later there was a whirring, whining noise and the rotors began to slowly revolve. The engine coughed and roared, then settled down to a steady drone. The rotors whirled faster, and abruptly the chopper rose off its ramp, straight up into the sky, then banked and sped off to the south.

Helen slipped back into the woods. The last view she had of the scene was the ramp retreating into the interior of the hill and two vast doors rumbling and grinding, the sound they’d heard from the river. The doors closed, the lights were gone, and all that one could make out as they pinched together was the impression of a hill re-forming itself.

When Helen got back to the river she found Roman, pretty much where she’d left him. “What the hell was that?” he said. “A chopper? Out here?”

She told him what she’d seen while they walked back to where they’d left the car.

“I wonder where he’s off to in such a hurry?” Roman wondered.

Helen had a bad feeling, but she didn’t voice it.